


His Songs Unsung

by nishizono



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Banter, Blood, Bromance, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spideypool - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter knows the list of things Wade would die for is short, and he knows he shouldn’t be one of them. Yet somehow, he is.</p><p>(Warning: there's some blood and very mild gore toward the end. Nothing gratuitous, but probably enough to warrant a mention.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Songs Unsung

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my husband for letting me steal bits of his everyday hilariousness to repurpose as some of Wade's dialogue, and for giving this a once-over before I posted it.

“I’m not eating that,” says Peter. He stares dubiously at the takeout container in Wade’s hand and then turns back to his phone. There are perks to being friends with the Avengers: namely, having access to every visual node JARVIS has in the city. 

“Oh come on, dude, it’s just fries and gravy. You’re hurting my Canadian pride.”

“You’re the worst at being Canadian,” Peter informs him. “You can’t even remember your national anthem.”

“ _That_ ,” says Wade, “is not true. O Canada! Our home of naughty hands--”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it goes.”

Wade thrusts the container of poutine at him. “Who’s the Canadian here? Now be a good boy and eat your poutine.”

“I’d rather not, thanks.” Peter pushes the container away, and before Wade can complain, he adds, “Besides, we’ve gotta go. Mendoza’s car was just spotted on I-95.”

“Oh snap, time for superhero shit?” says Wade. He drops the poutine off the side of the ledge they’re sitting on and pushes to his feet. The container hits the sidewalk below and splatters melted cheese curd all over the concrete.

“Stop littering,” says Peter.

“Says the dude who leaves sticky white shit all over the city.”

“Pretty sure that’s still you.”

There’s beat of silence before Wade lets out a peal of laughter that makes Peter’s lips twitch into a smile.

~*~*~

“This team-up was such a good idea,” Wade yells to be heard over the crash of an overpass collapsing behind him. “Being a hero is rad. These dudes have awesome ideas.”

Peter is all but doubled over, clutching at what he assumes are broken ribs. He stares at Wade in disbelief, not because Wade doesn’t have a scratch on him or because he has no idea who ‘ _these dudes_ ’ are, but because he still can’t believe that one person can wreak so much havoc. 

“What?” asks Wade, then glances behind him at the rubble. “Oh come on, Spidey, _that_? It’s just an overpass. No one was even on it. Fuckers. I can’t _believe_ that bastard got one over on us. Mutant-trafficking son of an asshole sucker with his unmanned cars and shit. What is this world coming to? When I was a kid, we had to _drive_ our cars, use our hands and feet and shit.”

“Just an overpass?” Peter repeats, a little winded. “Dude, that’s going to cost millions to fix.”

Wade shrugs, and although Peter can’t see his face, he can tell Wade is at least a little chagrined. It’s not much, but it’s progress compared to six months ago. “Occam’s Razor,” says Wade.

“That’s not--” Peter begins, then sighs and shakes his head. “Never mind. Come on, let’s go before S.H.I.E.L.D. gets here.”

“ _Breaking the law, breaking the law_ ,” Wade sings, and scoops an arm underneath Peter’s shoulders to half-carry him away from the wreckage. Peter doesn’t actually need the support -- it’s his ribs that are broken, not his legs -- but he lets Wade help him anyway. 

~*~*~

“Is it too late to throw another hot dog in with yours?” Peter calls without taking his eyes off the TV. He’s sitting on Wade’s couch, wearing his mask, a pair of Wade’s sweatpants, and a wrap of medical tape around his torso. He’s sure he looks ridiculous, but he’s equally sure that Wade doesn’t care. They’ve stopped trying to impress each other.

“Thought you weren’t hungry,” Wade replies from the kitchen.

Peter shrugs, even though Wade can’t see it, and says, “I changed my mind.”

“Those painkillers are some damn good shit, right? Got ‘em from a maid over at the Holiday Inn. Nice gal. Kinda ditzy, but damn if she doesn’t know how to take care of a dude’s pain. Says she pops one of those babies every day before her shift, gets her through. I mean, could be because of the--”

“Wade,” Peter interrupts. “Hot dogs?”

“Right, sure,” Wade replies good-naturedly. “Nah, it’s not too late. I mean, it would’ve been if you’d waited until I’d eaten all the hot dogs -- which, to be honest, would probably be in like an hour if you weren’t here. But you’re in luck! Otherwise, it’d be all _okay, damn, no more hot dogs, gotta go to the store_ , and then the dude down there would get all judgy like he does when I’m buying lots of food, and I’d have to get all--” Wade makes some noises that Peter assumes are supposed to mimic the sound of a sword swishing through the air “--and he’d be like--”

Peter stifles a laugh and leans back into the couch. It’s coming apart at the seams, especially on the arms where Wade likes to pick at the fabric while he talks, but it’s comfortable and familiar. Peter lets himself sprawl, and listens to the TV and Wade’s babbling until it blurs together into a background hum.

~*~*~

Peter wakes to the sensation of fingers tugging on his mask. His immediate instinct is to shove them away, but Wade grabs his hand and says, “Chill, kiddo. I haven’t seen anything. I’m just making sure we keep it that way.”

Peter’s not sure what Wade is talking about until Wade finishes pulling his mask down. It must have crept up his face in his sleep.

“You okay to sleep in that?” asks Wade. 

“Yeah,” Peter mutters. Sleeping in his mask isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but staying on Wade’s couch seems like a much better prospect than going home, especially since he can hear the patter of rain on the fire escape.

“Night then, Spiddyspack.”

Peter snorts and flops an arm over his face. “You’re eventually going to run out of stupid nicknames.”

“Trust me, that’s never gonna happen. I’ve got plenty of stupid.”

“Far be it for me to argue,” Peter mumbles. Wade’s footsteps cross the splintered floor and start down the hallway. Before he’s out of earshot, Peter says, “Hey Wade?”

Wade pauses, but for once, he doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks,” says Peter.

There’s a long pause, longer than any Peter can remember between them, before Wade finally replies, “Don’t mention it.”

~*~*~

They’re on patrol a few days later when Peter’s phone rings.

Wade leans over Peter’s shoulder to peek at the caller ID and lets out a whistle. “Damn, dude. What the shit is Patch-Eye doing, calling you?” 

Peter motions for Wade to be quiet as he answers. “Director Fury?”

“We’ve got eyes on Mendoza at the docks. Tony and the others are en route. Get down here.”

“Yo, Nicky,” Wade says loudly. He crowds up against Peter, no doubt to make sure Fury can hear him. “Don’t worry, man, I’m one of the good guys now. No lasering this time, right? I mean, unless it’s laser hair removal. Not that I need it. Oh hey! If you’re into the hairless thing--”

Peter shoves Wade with his free hand and says, “We’ll be there in five.”

~*~*~

Mendoza doesn’t just have a few thugs with him; he has an army.

Peter lands them in the midst of it, and Wade’s guns are drawn before his feet even hit the ground. He takes out two of Mendoza’s men with bullets to the kneecaps and kicks a third man in the throat. Then, he gives Peter a thumbs up and says, “Lead the way, bae. Your back is my front.”

Peter loses track of him in the chaos. They’re surrounded by smoke and gunfire, and shockwaves from Tony’s suit. By the time they’re done fighting, the port is a wasteland of crushed shipping containers and smoking rubble, but Mendoza and his men are all either incapacitated or dead. Peter is breathing hard, and his nose is bleeding. He shoves his mask up to wipe the blood away with the back of his hand and looks around for Wade.

Wade is nowhere to be found.

“Hey, Pool,” Peter calls. When there’s no answer, he tries again, “ _Deadpool_. Stop screwing around.”

Natasha is crouched nearby with her laptop open, probably already working on her report. She glances up and furrows her brow at him.

“Have you seen Deadpool?” Peter asks her. He hates the note of panic in his voice and the way his heart is thumping in his throat. 

Natasha shakes her head.

Peter doesn’t care how it looks as he runs over to the last place he’d seen Wade and starts scanning the chaos of twisted metal and scattered dolls from a shipping container that’s burst open. He’s about to turn and make his way back when the glint of shiny steel catches his eye. 

One of Wade’s katanas has been snapped in half. Its remains are lying there, broken and forgotten, and that’s when it sinks in for Peter that something is _wrong_.

Before he can even think to call for help, Peter is clawing through the wreckage, tossing aside sheets of metal that a normal person would need a crane to lift. He’s vaguely aware that the commotion is drawing the others to him, that Cap is asking him what’s wrong and that Tony, without even knowing what Peter is doing, has joined in to help clear the rubble.

Peter smells it before he sees it: a scrap of red leather, singed at the edges, lying in a puddle of blood next to what’s left of Wade’s body. Wade Wilson’s heart is grey and still, lying in a tangle of arteries that have gone limp from lack of bloodflow. The sight of it makes Peter woozy. 

“Shit,” Tony whispers behind him.

Peter scoops the heart up in both hands and holds it against his stomach, like the warmth of his body will somehow help it start beating again. And he _knows_ it will, because it always does, but god, he can’t help wondering if maybe this is the thing that will finally give Wade peace.

“Peter,” Natasha says as he pushes past her.

“ _Don’t_.” Peter stops to glare at her. “Do _not_ right now, Natasha.”

There must be something in his eyes that makes her decide not to push him, because she holds her hands up in concession and takes a step back. The others don’t try to stop him.

~*~*~

Peter knows that Wade has come back from worse, but there’s a knot of dread in his stomach when he gets home and sits down with Wade’s rapidly cooling heart in his lap. It’s not beating yet, hasn’t even begun to show signs of rebuilding itself, and god damn it, maybe this is really it this time.

The thought makes Peter want to throw up.

At a loss for what else to do, he pulls his covers back and gently places Wade’s heart on the pillow. He pulls his mask off and drops it on the floor, and for a long time, he just sits there and stares.

~*~*~

Wade’s heart starts beating around midnight, a full _six hours_ since his death and two hours after Peter had finally fallen asleep beside it, exhausted. The faint vibration of its beating is what drags Peter awake, and he lies there in the dark, watching the slow, steady squeeze of muscle trying to pump blood through veins that haven’t been rebuilt.

The vulnerability of it slices through the core of Peter’s conscience, and he pulls the blanket over Wade’s heart, determined to protect it until Wade is strong enough to do it on his own.

~*~*~

Wade’s regeneration is a far cry from the party tricks he pulls with bullet holes and knife wounds. It’s a brutal, messy process that breaks Peter a little more with every hour that passes. Wade’s lungs and vocal chords regenerate before his skin does, and the sounds he makes rattle Peter so badly that after four hours of it, he finds his noise-cancelling headphones and blasts his eardrums with white noise until his head aches. 

But he stays with Wade through it all, locked in his apartment for twelve hours, then sixteen, and then twenty-four. He changes the sheets and wraps Wade’s healing skin with bandages. He does seven loads of laundry. He sits beside Wade, not daring to touch him but not wanting him to be alone, and reads everything he can find aloud: photography journals, chemistry textbooks, and the previous week’s newspaper.

And when Wade finally, _finally_ opens his eyes, Peter is there staring down at him, with nothing between them but space. 

Wade looks at him, really _looks_ at him. He runs his gaze over Peter’s face: across his forehead and along the slope of his cheek, and finally back up to his eyes. He licks his still-healing lips and rasps, “You’ve got shit taste in literature, kiddo.”

The adrenaline that Peter has been running on finally dissolves. He shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes and chokes out, “Fuck you.”

“That’s my boy,” says Wade. His voice is tight with pain, but there’s an undercurrent of joviality to it that makes Peter think that maybe he’ll be okay after all. 

Peter practically collapses onto the bed. He flops down next to Wade and lets out a long, shaky breath. Wade turns his head to look at him, and Peter stares right back. He wants to say something, feels the moment is somehow momentous enough to warrant it, but he’s _so tired_ that he just can’t find the words.

As usual, it’s Wade who breaks the silence: “You’re telling me, man.”

“What?” asks Peter, fighting to keep his eyes from sliding shut.

“Nothing, just talking to myself,” says Wade. “What’s else is new, right? Anyway, you’re a damn fine sight to wake up to, Spidey. You’re really something else.”

Wade reaches over and grazes Peter’s jaw with his knuckles. It’s hardly even a touch, but Peter feels it in the pit of his stomach. He grabs Wade’s hand, careful not to squeeze too hard, and holds it for a moment before letting go.

“Go back sleep,” says Peter, losing the battle to keep his eyes open. “You need it.”

“I hate to tell you, but there ain’t enough beauty sleep in the world for this face.” Wade pauses, and Peter is almost asleep when he starts up again: “Oh shit, man, I could really go for a fucking bucket of nachos right now. Not even, like, the good taco stand kind, but really gross, fucking nasty ass 7-11 nachos. Do you know how long it’s been since I had those? God damn, dude. It’s been so long I almost forgot they existed.”

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter grumbles. “Less talking. More sleeping.”

Wade falls silent, and Peter thinks for sure he’s going to start rambling again any second, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just shifts under the blankets, flops an arm over Peter’s side, and mumbles, “You ain’t the boss of me.”

Peter smirks sleepily and mutters, “Yes I am,” but Wade is already snoring.


End file.
